


a delicate past

by Darkaja



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkaja/pseuds/Darkaja
Summary: Balan joins the Dark Side





	a delicate past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jelly/gifts).
  * Inspired by [a delicate arrangement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994344) by [Jelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jelly/pseuds/Jelly). 



> A not-so-short summary of Balan's previous life. I did my best to make him suffer, and to give a vald explanation for his habits (using my imagination, of course). Enjoy.

It’s the night of the Rojal Bal.

One of the most important and waited events in the kingdom, at least since King Harrow’s official coronation many months before. Everyone -or rather, _almost_ everyone- is celebrating that night.

Not _him,_ of course.

Balan, elbows put on the North Tower’s window lazily, observes with a quite disgusted and frowning expression the distant people, as they walk in the underlying courtyard, chatting each other around the nearby tables and the light torches. It’s customary on the last year’s night to give a great bal at the castle, and the newly formed King is more than happy to carry on that tradition.

No matter how hard he tries to, he just can’t understand them.

 _How_ can they enjoy themself, when the war always lies ahead?

Not that he’s ever been the life of the party, so to speak. His father was killed in war when he was still a child, and his mother passed away right after he joined the rojal army, where he lived a boring life, only to follow and obey strict rules. It was him, who chose that kind of life many years before. A matter of justice, to avenge a father -who he barely knew or talk to- killed by elves, at least he thinks as he keeps looking at the courtyard.

It’s not like he has something against elves. His commanders teached him they were supposed to be his enemies, and that’s all. Go there, kill them, return here. It’s a boring cycle he has learned by a long time.

Yet -even though he’s almost forty- he still can’t match what his father was, a General. He‘s a simple soldier who lacks ambition, and doesn’t have a real purpose or motivation.

Balan shakes his head with a sigh, as his lips slowly sip wine from a chalice he took from a table earlier. He just wants to be left alone up there, until the end of that nonsense night.

He still doesn’t know that decision will change him for the rest of his life.

"Well, look at that. I had no idea that there could be someone here.”

Balan, still lost in his thoughts, turns his head to the only room’s door with an eye roll. Apparently, not even the highest tower of the castle is _that_ isolated.

Still, he lands a quick glance at the woman holding another chalice behind him. Brown hair with a little red flower near a hear, and hazel eyes with a mole under the left one, that confers her an unusual but at the same time pretty look. She was probably -if not definetely- younger than him. A noble woman, judging from the lavish and white dress she’s wearing that night.

“Never mind, your ladyship.” Says Balan hastily, straightening his back and trying -in a very clumsy attempt- to pull himself together. “I’m not planning to stay here for too long.”

As the woman approaches him, laying her own elbows on the windows, he withdraws instinctively. Maybe it’s because of the difference between their age and social class -he's still a simple soldier, reminds to himself again-, or maybe he just feels uncomfortable near her.

 _-Gods-_ he doesn’t even have his armor that night, like a commoner.

She notices his unintentional gesture, and forrows an eyebrow. “Easy there, I won’t bite. And there’s _no_ need to address me like that.”

Balan doesn’t even know how to reply. He’s not _that_ used to talk to nobles -let alone _women_ \- in his military life.

“Sorry, I’m just a soldier.” He mumbles with a grimace as he turns to the courtyard again. “I don’t like these kind of events, just in case it wasn’t that obvious.”

“ _Really_.”

There’s a sort of irony in that affermation, and Balan glances at her another time. Is she making fun of him? It’s not like the first time it happens, most people -or rather, everyone else- mock him for his habits.

“I also like solitude.” Explains the woman, sipping from her chalice. “If it was me, I'd run away from this place immediately, without thinking twice.”

“Why don’t do that?”

“It was my sister who forced me to, this is my first time into this castle.” She explains with a blank gaze turned to the courtyard. “Stuff happened lately, and...” She shakes his head, and sips wine again. “Ah, I don’t want to talk about this. That's why I’m here, she said I need to have fun. Or at least, I’m trying to.”

“Well, I _really_ dubt you’ll enjoy yourself here.” Huffs Balan. “Unless you like to stay with this old geezer.”

And then that woman lets out a _laugh_.

It’s a so uncommon and unexpected reaction to him, that Balan stays open-mouthed, before he also starts laughing for that stupid pun. He doesn’t even remember the last time someone laughed to a joke he made.

He almost feel _happy_ for that.

He thinks for a seconds, then shrugs and holds out a hand. Not the most chivalrous thing, but he feels there’s no need to with that woman.

“Balan.”

“ _Sarai_.”

“Unusual name.” He points out, giving her an amused scowl.

“I’m not from Katolis.” Replies Sarai with a smirk. “Anyway, I like _unusual_ things.”

They stay in silence for some time, and Balan can feel that sort of discomfort growing up inside of him.

It’s a _weird_ sensation.

A part of him wants to stay there, while the other one screams to run away. He’s on the fence about it -he’s always been undecided in his whole life-, but still, he somehow _knows_ he has to take the initiative.

“So...” He starts, clearing his throat. “How about we toast?”

Sarai, caught off guard, scoffs at that. “A toast? To what?”

“To this meeting.”

He notices her embarrassed face, and he feels like an _idiot_ as he lifts his chalice. He’s already lowering his arm, when her own chalice meets his one suddenly, and she smiles to him.

“ _To the future_.”

Balan is so lost into that smile, that he barely notices the spatter of wine that leaves his chalice and stains Sarai’s white dress.

“M-My bad!” Stutters Balan, his eyes darting around to search something - _anything_ \- to clean up that mess. “I’m so, so clumsy, I-“

Sarai lets out a chuckle. “That’s not too bad, this stain will match my flower. And I’m not planning to stay here for too long.” She adds with an eye’s wink.

Balan clearly feel his stomach’s turning somersaults this time at that. He lowers his head, with an hangdog expression on the face. “Is there any way I can make it up?”

“Mh.” Sarai puckers her lips amused, and watches at the courtyard out of the corner of her eye. “Why don’t we _try_ to enjoy this night, Balan? A bit of company will do us good.”

She doesn’t miss his terrified expression. Not a surprise, he’d rather be surrounded by dozens -maybe more- of bloodthirsty elves than going down there.

 

Balan soon finds himself outside the North Tower among the other people, without even knowing how he got there.

A group of distant soldiers near a table notices him with that woman, and one of them shows him his thumb. Balan flushes and turns to the other side, doing his best to ignore them.

He looks for Sarai, and sees her near a table with someone else. It’s another woman, tall and with a permanent scowl on the face.

“Balan!” She smiles to him -he feels like butterflies in his stomach-, while he approaches the table. “This is the sister I talked you before, Amaya. She’s a soldier too and...” Someone calls her name from another table. “Oh, would you excuse me for a moment?”

As Sarai walks away, Balan stares at the other woman with his lips curved into a forced smile. “Ah, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Our army must be really desperate, if it accepts a woman in its ranks. I’ve always thought that women do fine in a kitchen, but never in an armor.” He chuckles carelessy, drinking some wine. “Not much of a talker, are you? That’s a good thing for a woman. Actually-”

Luckily for him, he stops just in time as he notices Amaya’s glare and pulsating vein on her forehead, as she clenches the jaw at that. Balan immediately stops drinking, and after a hasty curtsy, he goes - _almost runs_ \- after Sarai.

He still feels those eyes on his back.

Balan finds Sarai near another table, and as he approaches her with a smile, she turns around with something - _someone_ \- in her arms.

“This is Callum, my son.”

He just gives him a blank gaze. The baby has the same hair of her, but green eyes.

“Uh.”

Balan doesn’t add anything else. He can’t or doesn’t want to, and calls himself an _idiot_ again.

“I’m just sorry his father isn’t here, otherwise-”

“Don’t tell me, is he a loner guy too?”

Only after that, he realizes what he sais the shade that runs on her face.

“No,” she says dryly, “he died months ago.”

Balan feels relieved, and for the first time he’s _so disgusted_ by himself _._

That never happened to him before, and almost leaves him speachless.

“Sarai, I... I’m sorry.” He pleads with her in a contrite voice. “If only I had known, I-”

“No… It doesn’t really matter.” Sarai sucks in a breath and lets out a sigh. “Don’t worry.”

Balan scratches the back of his head. He looks around, and his eyes land on the dancefloor unintentionally. He already knows that’s a really dumb idea -he’s just _terrible_ at dancing-, but...

“We had to enjoy this night, remember?” He points out, as he tries to smile to her. “Would you accept a dance from this old geezer?”

Sarai thinks about it for several seconds, then her lips arch halfway between a smirk and a grin. “Why not? You’re not _that_ old.”

She gives her son to Amaya -still glaring at Balan-, and then returns to him, bending her knees in a sort of wry greeting.

“Soldier,” she proclaims, pretending to use an austere tone, “would you be my companion?”

Balan answers to that with a deep bow and a chuckle, bringing a hand to his chest. “As you wish, _your ladyship_.”

They make their way hand in hand through the other dancing couples, but it appears clear that Balan never touched a dancefloor before.

“Alright, this is definetely _not_ for me.” He admits with a long sigh, stubbing her toe - _again_ -. “My mother always used to tell me that I’m better at using a sword. Guess she was right.”

“It’s not _that_ difficult, don’t be a chicken.” She scoffs at him, her chin laying on his shoulder. “Just _breathe,_ Balan.”

Sarai gives him a witty glance and rolls the eyes. In the end, she’s the one who has to guide their steps, bringing one of his hands on her side -his stomach’s turning somersaults again-, while his second hand interlaces with hers.

Meanwhile, some of the previous soldiers start whistling behind them, and Balan scowls at them everytime they twist towards them on the dancefloor.

“Sorry for my... _Friends_.” Hisses Balan in low voice. “I’ll deal with them later.”

Sarai laughs in response, as they keep dancing. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Well... I-I mean...” He tries to clear his throat nervously, his face as red -if not more- than the nearby torches. “You and I-“

“ _Excuse me_.”

Balan chokes, snorting loudly.

 _What now_?

He turns around, ready to curse out whoever interrupted them, but his face pales as soon as he realizes there’s the King behind him.

“Y-Your Majesty!”

Balan hesitates before he lets her go with extreme reluctance, then keels down to the ground, followed by Sarai.

“Please,” begs Harrow, “there’s no need to. This is supposed to be a feast, after all.”

He speaks to both of them, but he offers his hand only to Sarai, who accept it with a smile. Harrow gives her a look, ignoring the poor Balan still knelt to the ground. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before, much to my costernation. Who-”

“ _Sarai_.” Answers for her Balan hastily -almost harshly-, before the King’s glare reminds to him his social position.

“I’m still new to the court, Your Majesty.” Sarai explains quickly.

“Ah, understood.” Murmurs Harrow, removing his eyes from Balan “Well, I could show you the castle someday. But first...” He holds out his hand doing a charming bow.

“Sarai, would you dance with me?”

She stares at Balan -still on the ground- doubtful, but he just jerks his head to that hand.

‘ _Go ahead, come on._ ’ He’s trying to mimic her.

It’s not like they have other choice, he’s still the King.

“Alright, but just one.” She says to Harrow with a flirty voice.

Balan returns disconsolate to his table, and spends the rest of that night watching them dancing, while he drinks in silence from his chalice.

 _Just one,_ she said.

However, from what he sees, it doesn’t look like it. Balan remains there, and waits for his turn that never comes.

 

When he finally realizes that, he lets out a sigh and heads to castle again, his glassy eyes turned to ground. It’s Sarai’s voice that rouses him.

“ _Balan, wait !_ ”

Sarai runs to him out of breath, and he just stays there, arms down to his sides. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Thanks for your company this night,” she says with a sincere smile, “I’d like to give you this.”

She gives to him the small red flower she has behind the ear, and Balan takes it with two fingers gently, like it could disappear at any moment.

“See ‘ya.”

Balan only manages to babble something -he doesn’t even remember _what_ exactly- to her in response, then looks at that flower intensely, like it was the most precious thing he has ever seen. Another soldier coming from a nearby corridor glances at his gazed face, and laughs at him.

Maybe that guy’s right, he’s an idiot to act like that.

But at least he’s a _happy_ idiot. And most important thing, now he has a _motivation_.

X

Days go by, then weeks and months too.

Balan works hard, to the point of exhaustion, and soon -his criterions considering- he finally gets a promotion. He runs to Sarai, who meanwhile moved to the castle, and she _smiles_ to him.

 _-Gods-_ that single smile is more than enough for him, that’s the main reason he wanted a promotion, after all. The more he moves up in ranks, the easier he can approach her, he thinks.

His father and even the elves -it’s been months since his last fight with them- are just a far memory.

“Congrats, _commander_.” Sarai brings both her hands to her hips, and furrows an eyebrow. “From now on, you’re no more a simple soldier.”

Starting from that day, Balan gets the permission to accompany her.

And _he does that_.

He follows her anywhere -and anytime- in the castle.

Even during the hunting trips with the King. Usually Balan would make bad jokes about a woman who does this kind of things, but not with her.

 _Very weird_ from him, he thinks.

He escorts her as she walk with Harrow. He watches her as she spars with Harrow. And he’s always near her as she eats with Harrow.

Actually, she does lots of thing _-too many things,_ perhaps _-_ with Harrow. Balan feels a bit jealous of him, but he can’t do nor say anything.

She’s still out of his reach.

At least, he can have his sweet revenge the mornings they use to spar. Sarai never loses against Harrow, and when he’s on the ground, with her spear pointing against his face, there’s always a soldier near him who huffs and rolls out a coin in secret. Balan always bet on her.

He _knows_ she’d never lose, and he’s proud of her.

 

In the meantime he’s still getting ahead in ranks -he barely sleeps to do that-, and when the new Rojal Bal’s night arrives, he takes his decision. He wants to talk to her, and to hell with the consequences. That night he polishes his armor and sword, and heads to the courtyard with a firm step.

Balan waits until everyone has gone, before taking her to the North Tower, near the same window where they met a year before.

“I have to tell you something.”

“M-Me too.”

She’s somewhat embarrassed and excited, but Balan takes that for a good sign. He keeps smiling to her, and nods his head in a sort of ‘ _go ahead_ ’ sign.

“King Harrow asked me to marry him,” Sarai confesses all in one breath with a sheepish face. “and I accepted. Oh Gods, I think I almost fainted.” She put runs her hands on the face, before he reminds herself Balan’s still there. “Is there something you had to say me?”

His smile quickly fades away like snow in the sun. He looks at the window, and then at the floor. _Everywhere_ , except at ther.

Just _how_ couldn’t he notice it?

He saw her dancing with the King, the smiles, the glances they exchanged during that year. But perhaps he already knows the answer.

Sarai laughs and tries to hug him, but she widens her eyes when she realizes that he’s bowing to her.

“Balan, there’s no need to... Why...”

“ _I’m fine_. Really.” He mutters in a subdued tone, more to himself than to her. “You’re my Queen now, and I’m just a simple soldier.”

“You’re _more_ than a simple soldier.” She replies confused, landing a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’re the first one who’s talked to me here. You’re my best friend, and I trust you.”

“Your Grace,” says Balan, his wet eyes on her feet airtightly. “ _please_.”

It’s more a plea than a request guided by simple formalism, but Sarai still doesn’t get it.

“As you wish, _commander.”_ She replies with harsh voice _._

Even after she left the Tower, Balan remains knelt to the floor. He feels the urgence to stop her, to tell her his feelings, but his body doesn’t react, and he just stays there, staring at the floor as tears keep flowing without end on his cheeks.

X

Balan stops following her since that night, and dedicates body and soul in his own mansion. He trains new recruits, and patrols the castle day and night.

“Balan,” his companions chuckle wryly, “you work too much, try to have _some fun_.”

He tries to ignore them, and clenches his fists everytime he hears that. Truth is, he just want to forget her. Everytime Sarai passes near him, he looks in another direction. He avoids her as much as he can, and when she looks for him, he just disappear without giving an explanation.

In the end, Sarai stops looking for him.

On her wedding day he observes her in silence from the crowd, as she takes Harrow’s hands. Their eyes meet for an instant, and Balan has the impression she’s still smiling to him. His chest burns, and he immediately looks away with a lump in his throat.

However, he can’t get angry with her, no matter how hard he tries to. She just seems _so_ happy near the King, that he feels somehow happy too.

Even when the King lifts -four years later- his newborn on the balcony above the crowd, he looks at her, and feels happy for her.

He realizes that he was the one who committed a mistake from the beginning, she’d never be within his reach.

 

It’s only after many years that Balan heads to her room.

Katolis is starving, and many people died all because of Harrow’s stupid decision of helping Duren. There’s simply no food for everyone. He heard rumors about the suicidal mission proposed by his mage, Viren.

Balan shakes his almost completely white-haired head, and scrunches up his nose at his name.

He never tolerated primal magic -it reminds him of elves-, nor the Dark one. It’s just too disgusting, obnoxious, even _gruesome_ for him.

And when he enters in her room and sees her already dressed in armor, he can’t do anything else but to _scowl_ at her.

“Your Grace,” he pleads with her dryly, eyes on her feet, “this is madness, you _can’t_ go.”

Sarai doesn’t answer immediately, and hooks his spear on her back with a fluid gesture.

“I _can_ , commander. I’m your Queen, remember?” She points out harshly.

Balan clenches his jaw and furrows his brow at that.

“I’ve a task for you, commander.” Continues Sarai, as Balan slightly lifts his head and watches at her knees. “During our absence, you’ll take the lead. Take care of the castle and watch over my son. Is that clear?”

“You Grace,” he snaps loudly, as is frown deepens even more, “I have to insist. Send me instead-”

“There’s my husband there, commander. I won’t leave him, and _that’s all_.”

It’s her tone that stops him, and he knows he can’t say anything else.

“As you wish, Your Grace.” He sighs, lowering his head.

He’s going to run away -as usual-, but she does something that he’d never expectced from her.

“I’m still trusting you, _Balan_.” Whispers Sarai to his ear gently, before she heads to the door hastily. “Take care of yourself, old geezer.”

Balan lifts his head slowly.

That’s the first time after almost fifteen years that she calls him by his real name.

He stares at the door she just left blankly, just like the night he stopped calling the Queen by her name.

“ _Don’ t go away again, Sarai_.” He croaks, still knelt on the floor.

 

For weeks Balan observes the castle’s main entrance.

He’s still convinced she’s unbeatable, just like when she used to spar with the King in those distant mornings.

And when they return, Balan is still the first one who’s waiting for them. But Harrow’s face -and the _small ring_ on his finger- are more than enought to tell him she’s no more.

That same night Balan goes to the North Tower for a last time, where he leans against the same window where they met fifteen years before, overlooking the empty courtyard.

He doesn’t go to her funeral -her body isn’t even there, he thinks angrily-.

Balan stays there for all the night, like he was expecting to see her opening the door behind him.

No one arrives.

 

Weeks later, he’s still the first one who accepts the mission proposed by both Harrow and Viren. A direct and unexpected attack against the lair of the Dragon’s King and his elves.

 _Elves_.

Now he has a new _motivation_.

 

And almost two months later, after they return, Balan is a _Crownguard_ , one of the most coveted rank in the kingdom.

“ _No prisoners_.”

That was Viren’order. And Balan was more than happy to satisfy it.

Even though it’s been almost fifteen years after his last fight, he managed to save the King’s life from a couple of Dragon Guards, two Moonshadow elves.

He still remembers with a large and satisfied grin on his face the expression that elf did, when he pierced with his sword her companion. He still remembers the rage and despair in her violet eyes when she realized he was dead. However, Balan has to admit that she was brave - _quite daring_ , he’d say-. That elf didn’t even beg for mercy, she barely managed to babble something about a ‘ _Little Moonbeam_ ’ to the body stained in blood of the other Dragon Guard, before Balan finished her off mercilessly.

But most important, he remembers Viren. He managed to kill the Dragon King with a spell. Perhaps Dark magic wasn’t _that_ bad. A good thing to keep in mind, he thinks.

 _Who knows_.

Balan keeps walking along the castle’s corridors with his new shiny and clinking armor on, lost in his thoughts, until someone running from a corner bumps with him, falling on the ground with a loud moan.

It’s Marcos, a simple soldier currently on patrol near the castle.

He looks at him loftily, and the other stands at attention, swallowing. Balan smirks at his reaction. Only the King and a few other people can make fun of him now, he points out in his mind.

"Elves, in the forest.” Marcos whispers, a tear of sweat on his brow.

 _Elves_. Something inside Balan just snapped.

"Come with me, I'm taking you to Viren.”

Balan luckily misses the sigh of relief that Marcos lets out behind him. He still prefers Viren -all things considering- to him.

 

The next morning they ride for many hours into the woods, guided by Soren. Balan frowns at his back. That guy is an _idiot_ , to the point that sometimes he asks himself how he could be Viren’s son.

Soren is forcing them to follow a sort of glowing moth, that -in theory- will lead their company to the elves. Balan isn’t that convinced by his words. In his mind, the only reason that kid was a Crownguard - _a captain_ , for Gods’sake- is because his father is a noble, and that’s it. He doesn’t even know what war is, nor he struggled as he did to reach that rank.

He keeps observing him, as he scratches confused his head, when the moth lands on a nearby tree.

 _That tree_...

Balan stares at it, with eyes narrowed. He doesn’t even know why, but he swears he just saw it moving, and he reaches out the sword’s pommel.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Says Soren, with an eye roll. “Take it easy and have _some fun_ , old man.”

Balan glares at him, as he yawns and jumps on his horse again. He looks for a last time at that tree, and then shrugs.

X

 _Nothing to worry about,_ that idiot said _._ Yeah, sure _._

Maybe that’s why not one, but _five_ Moonshadow elves that night attack the castle and kill the King. Balan still manages to capture one of them, but he gets mad when he finds out both the Queen’s sons -the same sons Sarai asked to protect- have been taken hostage by an elf. He insists with both Viren and Amaya to go searching them, but it’s all useless.

 

Another month goes by, before one of them returns safe, and Balan finally breathes.

Too bad for the other one -Clem, Calem, or whatever his name is-. When he finds out that he’straveling with an elf - _the same_ elf who captured them-, he almost has a heart attack.

Well, at least he receives good news. According to the spy -one of the many he has now in the kingdom after Harrows’s death-, Soren was almost killed by a dragon he faced alone with only a sword, and now he can barely walk, only thanks to her sister -a woman, he thinks with a scowl- who used Dak Magic.

 _Idiot_.

But again, Dark Magic provided its usefulness.

That’s what he thinks, as Ezran decides to make him _General_ as a replacement for Amaya, since she’s fighting on the border. If there’s a woman Balan still trusts blindly, that’s her.

He judged her wrongly fifteen years ago. _Maybe_.

Balan doesn’t care of his father anymore. Now that Viren is gone, he’s second only to the King.

 

After almost year, the second prince returns.

 _And_ he can use magic _. And_ the elf is still with him _._

Balan wrinkles his nose, but he can’t do anything else -not for now-, and bows to him, when he steps into the castle with that elf.

 _That elf_.

It’s weird, but the first time Balan looks at the violet of her eyes, he swears he already saw it somewhere else. He smiles -almost grins- at her, but his hand never leaves the hilt of his sword until they’re both out of his sight.

X

Three years later, Balan observes terrified how the surrounding world is slowly changing. Since the second prince has returned, borders are open again, and crowds of elves entered into Katolis. Not even after Ezran made him member of the High Council, he obtained his full trust. That kid jut doesn’t listen to him.

‘ _He’s just like his father_ ’ Balan thinks with a frown. And that’s true. Harrow was a good King, and that caused his own ruin.

 _If only_ he stopped that marriage, maybe no one else would’ve supported his dumb idea of helping Duren. Many people would still be alive, no revenge mission would have happened, he would still be that shy guy he was when she met him.

And maybe _she’d still_...

Balan shakes his head firmly and snorts louder than his horse, as he keeps riding across the capital. He surpasses a strange store of magical artifacts managed by an elf -Gods, another one-, and heads to the city’s main gate.

He already knows his destination. Balan returns there every month, after the war ended.

The Rojal Graveyard is quite distant from the city, and Balan rides for almost a hour before he finds its entrance. He ties his horse there, and walks with his glittering armor always on, mantle fluttering behind him.

It doesn’t take too many time before he sees it. Sarai’s grave is near the Harrow’s one. He stares at it for several seconds, before he approaches and kneels in front of it, lighting a candle.

He doesn’t pray, afterlife never interested him, but he feels somewhat responsable for what happened to her. The memory of her leaving the room with her spear on the back is still here, in his mind.

He remains knelt there, until he hears another person behind him.

“General.”

Balan doesn’t even turn to him, he recognized that voice. It’s a spy he left in the castle.

“I thought I ordered you to _not_ disturb me when I’m here.” He says coldly.

“The Prince is here.”

“I already know _that_.” Snarls Balan harshly. “I’m not blind, I saw him arriving yesterday. Now leave me.”

The voices becomes hesitant. “But... It’s the Prince, the King wants to arrange a marriage-”

“Good to know.”

“- _with the elf_.”

Balan blinks. And swallows.

He turns to the spy, who bows promptly.

“Are you sure? Because _otherwise_...”

The spy nods frantically, and Balan rises from the ground with a huff. Without being noticed, he brings a hand under his mantle and extracts a sort of handkerchief, opening it slowly.

There’s a small yellowed and whitered flower inside, and Balan takes it gently with two finger, staring at it doubtful.

‘ _You’re more than a simple soldier_.’

“Bring here my horse,” Balan orders quietly, putting the flower on the grave, “I have to talk to the King.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, he's still a douchebag.


End file.
